My BFF Watson
by KCS
Summary: --Collaboration with Silvre Musgrave-- Title and plot bunny inspired by one of Silvre's amazing dA icons; link within. Complete, unmitigated, and utterly impossible nonsense. Crackfic, in other words. You have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

_Hallo! The lovely Silvre Musgrave (check out her wonderful stories, do) and I come together to bring a new, and more than slightly randomized, offering. _

_The inspiration for this story came from a wonderful icon she has made at her DeviantArt page at_http: / / silvre . deviant art . com / art / My – BFF – Watson – 74472968_.__ (If that broken-up link doesn't go through, follow the link in her profile to her dA galleries, and you'll be able to easily pick out the icon in question after reading the initial randomness here.)_

_We reiterate the warning in advance: this is pure, unadulterated crackfic; or, in laymen's terms, _here there be craziness_. Not meant to be, and definitely would never be, considered part of the Canon. Read at your own risk._

--

On a ridiculously warm winter evening some months following my marriage to Miss Mary Morstan, my wife was out for the evening at a friend's house, helping to watch the lady's four children while a dinner party was in progress there. I had just locked up the consulting-room for the night and was walking back through the hall, candle in hand, when there was a knock at the front door.

Sighing, for I suspected it to be a desperate patient, I plastered my friendly-family-physician-who-is-still-struggling-to-build-up-a-practice smile upon my face and wearily opened the door on the wetly warm evening air.

To my relief, and his obvious amusement, the visitor was my friend Sherlock Holmes, and I lost no time in showing him into my study, where the maid had lit the evening fire. Though it was unseasonably warm for this time of January, the sun had set and the house was growing chilly. We pulled our chairs close to the blazing embers, and it was only then in its cozy light that I noticed my friend was shifting uneasily, scrabbling at his coat pockets as if in search of something, and doing so with some urgency.

And a peculiar, very uncanny buzzing noise was emanating from his right jacket pocket.

"Erm…Holmes?" I asked tentatively, as he shoved a hand into his right trouser pocket, his ears turning slightly red as he could not seem to locate the object of his hasty search.

"I can't find it," he muttered frantically, but finally rammed his hand into the correct pocket with an exclamation of triumph. The buzzing noise suddenly ceased as he pulled the object out, glaring at it as if very seriously upset.

"I missed it!" he complained loudly, scowling at me as if I should have helped him "catch" whatever he "missed."

"Missed what?" I asked curiously, leaning forward to see the object held in his hand. "And…what the devil is that thing?"

"It is…some sort of communications device," he replied dolefully, shaking the thing in evident frustration as he fiddled with its shiny cover, his lips pursed in a thin dash of a scowl.

"A what?"

"Lestrade gave it to me for Christmas; said the Yard was tired of my sending too many messages and telegrams every day," Holmes answered, scrutinizing the object closely and tapping the face of it in experimentation.

I jumped as the object suddenly emitted an angry beep at his touching.

"What on earth, Holmes!"

"Ah, there it is. I knew I was doing something wrong," he muttered, more to himself than to me as was his custom when thinking deeply. "Here, Watson, take a look, and tell me what you observe from this interesting little conundrum."

He passed the object over to me, and I accepted it warily at arm's length, not wishing to be on the receiving end of any strange noises (or other even less pleasant gifts from whatever it was); I had been the recipient of enough practical jokes in those old days at Baker Street to suspect a trap with nearly any object that passed through Sherlock Holmes's hands prior to reaching mine.

The article in question was roughly four or five inches long, and about half as wide, made of some very shiny, almost iridescent, dark reddish material that was apparently hard as glass. It was not as heavy as I had anticipated, either, and was covered on the front by what looked like different uniformedly-shaped buttons, bearing the letters and numbers one would normally find upon a typewriter – but not in the correct order; they were crammed upon twelve buttons and no more, in numerical order.

I held the thing up to my eye, wondering at its light and rather sleek design, when suddenly it began to vibrate in my hand, with that peculiar buzzing noise as background accompaniment. I gave a small yelp of surprise (Holmes snickered in a most ungainly fashion) and nearly dropped it in the fire, causing the detective to dive for it and snatch it protectively, almost lovingly, from my hand.

"Be careful, Watson! I am told the things cost a small fortune!"

"Holmes, what the devil is it?" I demanded as he examined the face of the object, which had suddenly and unaccountably lit up as if illuminated from behind by some phosphorescent glow.

"Look," said he with a small knowing smirk, pushing a button and showing the thing to me.

Upon the smallish glowing screen were…letters. Words. _Sentences_.

_You are like a child with a new toy, Sherlock, do you know that?_

I gasped and looked up, to see my friend laughing at my mystified, and quite skeptical, expression.

"What devilry is this, Holmes?"

"My dear Doctor, it is not witchcraft; merely a very interesting new form of progress in the world of communication. A portable, pocket-sized processor of words and communication, both written and spoken, using some sort of technology that my brother insists is going to be in vogue in coming years – he calls it a 'cellular mobile telephone and messaging unit'."

"A what?"

"A _cell phone_, Watson," he informed me, his thin, nimble fingers tapping the tiny keys with a speed that fairly made my eyes cross. "From what I have been able to see, it functions as these new telephones do, but more importantly it has the ability to send a sort of telegram, without having to go down to the local offices and send the wire one's self. Quite handy."

"You mean you can telegraph your brother from that…_thing_?" I gasped, looking over his shoulder as he indeed was apparently "typing" a message.

"Quite – or anyone else who also has one of the infernal machines, for that matter," said he cheerfully, pressing a small green button. The words vanished from the tiny screen as if by magic.

"What happened?"

"I just sent the message."

"But how?"

"Brother mine can explain the entire thing to you, Doctor; I haven't the time or energy after spending so long to figure out how the blasted thing even worked," he drawled, stretching out his long legs in front of my fire. I peered curiously at the little wonder once more, holding it gingerly in the palm of my hand, and I saw his eyes slide sideways at me, a knowing grin quirking at his thin lips.

"I don't suppose you would like to have one as well, Doctor, so that I may stop desecrating your consulting-room with my street urchins when I wish to send you a message?"

--

_And the crack-fic will continue, oh yes…_


	2. Chapter 2

A few days later, Holmes presented me with a device similar to his own in every way except for the fact that its exterior was coloured blue. While Mary was at the market that afternoon, I was taught the basic operations of the _cell phone_.

"…and then you press this green button here to deliver the message--" Holmes said, pressing a green button on my contraption, "—and it should arrive instantaneously." A telltale buzz from his own cell phone, balanced precariously on his knee, alerted us that he had indeed received my message.

"That is astounding!" I exclaimed. "How amazing that something so small could store so much information!"

Holmes' smile grew at my obvious amusement as I further examined my new device. "And if you go here…you can pick a _ring tone._"

"What's a—oh!" I nearly dropped it as it began to loudly play _God Save the Queen._

Holmes chuckled as he leaned over. "You can pick any tune you wish. Use these arrows to pick."

For several minutes, Holmes and I circulated through the "ring tones," as he called them. There were many pleasing melodies (and some not so pleasant) to choose from, and I at last decided on something I recognized by Mozart, after which I continued to explore the workings of the machine. "What is this button for?" I asked, pointing.

He looked at his own cell phone, then at mine in confusion. "I don't know."

"You don't know? You mean you haven't noticed it?" I asked, shocked.

"Of course I _noticed_ it, Watson. I simply haven't touched it yet. Go on, Watson."

"There's no telling what it does, Holmes!"

"Where is your sense of adventure, Doctor?" he asked with a smirk.

Not to be bested, I very carefully pressed the button, but nothing seemed to happen. "Hmm." I pressed it again, and once more, nothing occurred.

"I'll message Lestrade. Perhaps he knows." Before I could respond, Holmes's fingers were flying across the miniscule keys. They pressed the green button, and the message was off. "I'd better ask Mycroft as well."

It was not long before his brother responded:

_I believe it is the button for the camera, Sherlock. Push that button, centre it on the image you wish to capture, and push the OK button. The resulting photograph will appear on the front window of the cell phone._

"It takes photographs?" I asked in a hushed whisper. "But doesn't a camera require chemicals…and a light?"

"Hold still, Watson." Holmes held up his camera, and was very still for a moment until he pressed a button, where it made a curious clicking noise – quite unlike other noises that it had emanated before.

Holmes held it close to his face and let out a barking laugh.

"What is it?"

"You!" He thrust the phone toward me, and what did I behold but a tiny duplicate of my face, fully coloured.

I laughed as well, for I was wearing the most ridiculous expression.

Until Mary returned, Holmes and I diverted ourselves with our cell phones, taking pictures and messaging each other. By the time he left, I had nearly figured out the placement of all numbers and letters.

- - -

My fingers were not nearly as thin and nimble as my friend's, but as the week went on, I grew more accustomed to the placement of the letters and numbers. Soon I was quite engrossed with what Mycroft had appropriately called a "new toy." I kept the contraption on my person all of the day except for while bed, and could often feel the now-familiar vibration of it in my coat pocket.

Holmes contacted me with it several times a day, and at peculiar hours. He had the terrible habit of messaging me just when I was sitting down to dinner (much to the irritation of my wife).

It was at this particular time on the following Tuesday that he sent me a message of a most interesting nature.

* * *

_To be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

I had, by the time of which I speak, been doing my utmost to accustom myself to the interesting little gadget my friend had given me, even going so far as to stop by the Yard that Monday evening to have a chat with Lestrade about it.

He had been most cooperative, and had even taken the time to write down for me the most common abbreviations that I might see in received messages. Apparently everyone who possessed one of the infernal devices was expected to all but learn a new language with which to communicate, and I had no desire to appear inept in my ignorance of it.

Lestrade scribbled down the most common acronyms I might see and handed me the list.

"Thank you," said I, pocketing the thing with gratitude that perhaps I might not appear so behind the times when once I had learnt the language. "B the way, have you any idea how reliable these things really are? I know Holmes sent you a message, for instance, and received no answer…do messages get lost occasionally?"

"Mm…sometimes," the man replied, smirking at me and tossing his own instrument on the desk. "But in that particular case, it wasn't that. Mr. Holmes isn't able to send me messages anymore."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, puzzled. "How…"

"I blocked his number," the little official declared complacently.

"You can prevent a person from sending you messages?" I admit to being more curious as to the power of the device than the slight against my friend. Besides, no doubt he had been highly annoying with the machine.

"Oh yes, Doctor. I mean, really," the man added, pocketing his 'phone and showing me out. "He was calling me on my off-duty hours, at night, any time of the morning, asking the most ridiculous questions. I am quite pleased he decided to get you one, Doctor; perhaps he'll spend his time messaging you instead of us."

"I shall have a talk with him," I promised, trying not to laugh.

"Yes, do," Lestrade replied dryly. "You would be surprised how many insults he can fit into only one hundred sixty characters."

--

As it transpired, I had not the time to have a conversation with Holmes (other than replying to a picture of Mrs. Hudson's peach tart that he sent me apparently at random that night) until the following evening, Tuesday.

I had been finishing up some paperwork in my study when Mary entered to tell me dinner was being laid, and I was more than happy to relax from the hectic schedule and spend a quiet meal with my lovely wife. We had seen little of each other for a day or two other than the evenings, due to my work and her volunteering at a local charity for troubled women, and I was thoroughly enjoying our intimate converse and the excellent meal the cook had provided.

Mary, her blue eyes glowing with beautiful eagerness, was detailing a situation to me in which she had been of help to a lady this afternoon, when my pocket began to vibrate. Clapping a hand to it, I hastily withdrew the 'phone before Mary could hear it, and at a suitable point when her attention was engaged by her salad I looked down at the glowing screen.

I was unsurprised to see a picture message from Sherlock Holmes.

What I was completely surprised to see, and _not_ in a pleasant way, was that the picture which popped up after I managed to press the appropriate button without being noticed by my wife was apparently a close-up of a rather ghastly flesh wound (jagged and still bleeding) in a man's throat.

_Any views on what could have caused this?_ read the accompanying text.

I gulped, suddenly losing my appetite, and then hastily looked up when my wife slyly ran the toe of her shoe up my leg. She arched an eyebrow at me as I blushed, and smiled knowingly.

"I am sorry, my dear…"

"It was an uninteresting tale, anyway," she replied graciously, her eyes twinkling at me. "I take it Mr. Holmes has something a bit more interesting?"

"Erm…not exactly," I fumbled awkwardly, swallowing hard and hastily tapping out _Teeth or claws? This is not a good time._ before shoving the instrument back into my pocket. "Pray continue, my dear; I am sorry."

My wife is the most longsuffering of creatures, and she merely smiled and continued her story. Thirty seconds later my pocket vibrated again. I stealthily removed the instrument without taking my eyes off my wife, and when she paused to instruct the maid regarding something in the drawing room I glanced down.

_Humorous. Be specific. Why isnt it a good time._

_Large dog. Eating dinner; disgusting message._

I looked up from sending my message only a fraction of an instant before Mary turned back to me, her face glowing with some new plan to redecorate some room in the house. As it was all the same to me, I nodded and smiled and tried to finish my meal.

My pocket vibrated again.

_MA. Then you really dont want to see the state of the rest of the fellow._

_MA? _I typed back, trying to remember what it stood for and keeping my face smiling at my wife, mechanically answering her inquiries.

_My apologies._

_Oh. Is it a case?_

Blast. Just after I sent the message, my wife suddenly stopped talking and fixed me with an unnerving glare.

"What is it, my dear?" I asked, frantically trying to remember what I had said.

"I just asked you if I could redecorate our bedroom in orange and purple," she replied dryly. "Tell Mr. Holmes you are engaged at the moment, darling."

I felt my ears burn at being caught yet again, and was about to duly type the message in when the infernal thing vibrated once more.

_It is a case. Call me and I shall tell you all about it._

I blinked, feeling my wife's disapproving gaze upon me, and hastily sent a message back.

_I cant. _

_Why not?_

_Because its rude to do so at the dinner table?_

_Because your wife wont let you you mean. I told you women are not to be trusted._

_Jealous?_

_Not by a long shot. I've no desire to be reduced to being ordered about at my own dinner table by a female._

_GTB._

_Eh?_

_Go to blazes. Call me later. _

I smirked and then tapped out one last message to Lestrade, thanking him for giving me that list of interesting little phrases with which to confuse Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his precious cell phone.

* * *

_To be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

I settled further into my usual chair in one of the smaller rooms of the Diogenes Club with my newspaper in hand. It was precisely thirty two minutes past eight o' clock in the morning; several men were in similar positions around me, silently reading the morning news.

I had just finished the front page and was on the verge of turning to the second when a loud and unholy noise erupted from my coat pocket. I knew it immediately to be my mobile telephone and brought it out from the confines of my coat. I glanced around me to see nothing but disapproving and agitated glares for having disturbed the sacred quiet of the sitting room.

I silenced the offending object, then bowed my head in apology as I collected my newspaper and withdrew from the room. As I walked towards the stairway with the paper under my arm, I peered at the device's screen. I paused momentarily in my step as I caught the name of the sender: Sherlock Holmes.

_Of course,_ I thought. _Only my brother would think to message me in the solitude of the Diogenes. But I suppose it is my fault for not silencing the thing. _I sighed and wondered vaguely what he wanted. Before I could do anything more, the telephone buzzed impatiently, its screen flashing. I opened it, not because I felt so inclined to read what message I was sent, but to end what would only become an incessant annoyance if I did not do so.

What greeted me in the first message was not a trail of words but an image – an image of a man's throat, torn and bleeding.

The second message read, _Deductions?_

I made my way up the stairs and closed myself in an empty lounge room. _You know better than to bother me at the Diogenes, Sherlock. You've caused me some trouble, you know. I can't be disturbed night and day with all of your silly problems._

_GL! This is a man's life, not a silly problem._

_GL? _I asked. My brother had taken to using abbreviations for common phrases, and it was most distracting.

_Good Lord._

_Is it so difficult for you to spell things out like a normal human being?_

_Quicker. Deductions?_

I sighed heavily and sat myself on a sofa. _An animal perhaps. But anything is possible when the criminal mind is involved. What else do you expect me to deduce from such a vague picture, Sherlock?_

The reply was almost irritatingly quick: _Do you know him?_

_Should I know him?_

My telephone buzzed yet again a minute later, heralding the arrival of another image. This time it was a full picture of the man's face. Though smeared with blood, his expression was unmistakable of that of pure terror. What's more, I recognized him.

_I do know him,_ I typed. _His name is Alexander Cooper. He works for the Prime Minister, but comes to the Diogenes Club regularly. Unmarried, successful, quiet, careful sort of man – a typical man of the government. Where was this photograph taken?_

_On Bridge Street near the clocktower._

I looked at the text for a moment. Bridge Street was very near Whitehall. Near the Prime Minister's residence.

_You have no evidence that this was a man or animal?_

_Police took the body away before I could formally inspect it. Only had time to take a few pictures. Sent them to Watson, couldnt tell me anything._

_Do form your sentences correctly, Sherlock; it's rather trying at times. The doctor couldn't tell the difference between a man-made wound and an animal one?_

_You can?_

_My dear boy, I'm not a doctor. What is it? You sound rather miffed._

_Watson's blocked me. I upset him._

_That's bound to happen when you send a numerous amount of messages at inappropriate times of the day._

_NM,_ Sherlock's message came impatiently. _Ideas?_

_I can't assist you until I have more information, Sherlock. All I have is pictures and a location. Give me facts. Until you observe the body and talk to Scotland Yard, I cannot help you._

_DIU spelling things out. Wastes time. _

_DIU?_ I was starting grow weary of his abbreviations.

_Don't insist upon. Will talk to Yard. Back with facts WAPS._

_WAPS?_

_With all possible speed._

I refrained from sending a message back that was highly uncouth, and instead pressed the power button, for I _would_ have silence over my morning paper. Besides, I well knew the Doctor would relent before the morning was over, and he was more than welcome to my brother's infantile attentions.


	5. Chapter 5

***cringe* KCS assumes any and all responsibility for this belated update. I could plead real life and writer's block over all my fics in general, but...anyhow. My apologies and don't blame Silvre.**

* * *

I was hard-pressed not to laugh at the mental picture of Mycroft Holmes's messaging unit suddenly squawking in the middle of the reverential atmosphere of the Diogenes Club; but to continue the cold shoulder I was giving to a certain obnoxious consulting detective (as well as because from across the aisle Lestrade was staring disapprovingly our direction for whispering during the press conference) I refrained from more than a polite nod as Holmes sniggered and finished his story.

My amusement vanished completely, however, when an Inspector whom I did not know by sight tapped us politely on the shoulders and informed us we were to leave if we could not keep silent during the proceedings.

I felt my face flush in embarrassment, and Lestrade sent me a commiseratory glance. Holmes merely made an extremely rude gesture toward our corrective official's uniformed back. Beside Lestrade a young sergeant – Cummings, I believe Lestrade had introduced him briefly as – snickered openly, earning him an instant friend in Sherlock Holmes and a mortified elbow in the ribs from the ferret-faced inspector.

And then for the interminable space of about five seconds, we listened in perfect blissful silence to Gregson's guarded answering of a reporter's question.

Then I clapped a hand hastily to my jacket pocket as a by-now familiar vibrating rattled my watch-chain. We were seated behind a rather large – I use the term kindly – fellow who was busily scribbling in a tiny notepad, and so were hidden from view of the front of the room; I felt safe in removing the object from my pocket and peeking at its little glowing screen.

Besides, I was even more bored than Sherlock Holmes, only being present now because the man had all but begged on his knees for me to go to luncheon with him after the thing was done and because Mary was watching Mrs. Forrester's children for the majority of this sunny Saturday afternoon.

I squinted down at the object in my palm, and then sighed.

_Ha, made you look._

Holmes was quivering with silent, immature laughter beside me, and I glared at him, casting a wary eye backward. Blast, the insufferable fellow who corrected us was watching us severely; silence was still crucial to our surviving this conference without public humiliation.

I scowled and began typing, aware of Lestrade's smirk across the aisle. _You can be so positively juvenile._

How the devil Holmes had managed to learn to use the instrument so quickly, I have no idea, only that in the space of two seconds from when I pushed the green button I received a reply containing only colon and a capital letter P.

Puzzled, I replied. _WTD does : and P mean?_

_Not and. :P. Its called an emoticon, if my memory serves._

_Just exactly what is that??_

_Hopkins says it is a series of symbols and/or letters to represent the features of a human face._

…_so?_

_:P means Im sticking my tongue out you. In a manner of speaking._

_I rest my case about your juvenility._

Holmes smirked, his thin fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the infernal device. _Have you a more diverting way of passing the time?_

I was about to reply when both our units flashed at the same instant, carrying the identical message _Break it up, u 2. _

Mine bearing the signature of Lestrade, I looked over at Holmes's 'phone to see that his message was identical. Then I hastily channeled my impulsive snickering into an awkward cough, for apparently my friend had saved the poor Inspector's name in his Contacts as _Rat-Face_.

We both glanced across the aisle, where Lestrade was very conveniently absorbed wide-eyed in what Gregson was burbling on about and his sergeant was red-faced and studiously doodling in his notebook.

I glanced down as my unit lit up and vibrated in my palm. _Shall I tell him what he can do with his CP?_

_CP? And no._

_Cell phone, natch. Why not?_

_Besides that it is rude in the extreme? He has blocked your number._

_:( Hes the 3__rd__ person this week 2 do that._

_Is that sposed to be a sad emoticon?_

_Yes Hopkins called it a frowny-face._

_And you believe the fellow is more intelligent than the rest of the Yard._

_Thats not saying much, u kno._

_LOL_

_Dyou spose that idiot will ever be done blathering?_

_I assume youre talking about Gregson? Why did you have to come to this anyhow?_

_Wanted 2 c what story he gives the press about dead politician._

_You could always read the paper._

_Better 2 get straight from the horses mouth, sts._

_Sts?_

_So to speak. ^^ You must brush up on your emoticonage, mdf._

_WTD is that sposed to be, rabbit ears? And mdf?_

_My dear fellow. And complacent or happy, accdg to the resident expert._

_Hm. What others are there?_

_O lots. Most commonly :) :/ =) 8O 8D xD o.O -_- ^_^ ~.~ :-o_

_I am so not learning all that._

_Or :-Q_

_And that is?_

_Smoking face. xP_

_You really have been bored of late, havent you?_

_U have no idea. :-o Do you spose if I begin snoring loudly Gregson will grasp the general consensus?_

_I wouldnt try it._

Then we both started as simultaneously both our 'phones vibrated with a message from Lestrade – namely a highly amusing picture that, had the Superintendent ever seen it, would have gotten at least three of the Inspectors fired on the spot.

But that is another story.


End file.
